


The Booty Limits

by cadkitten



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Comedy, DickDamiWeek, Do he got the booty?, Humor, M/M, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-10 20:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7859365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadkitten/pseuds/cadkitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things should never be left unsaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Booty Limits

**Author's Note:**

> For DickDamiWeek over on tumblr. Day 4: Do he got a booty?  
> Thought I'd try an entirely different way of writing. Not sure how I feel about it.  
> I sincerely hope you all get the joke of the title, Ahahaha!  
> Beta Readers: kate1zena  
> Song[s]: " Song For Staring" by Swell Sounds

The steady scratch of pencil against paper, the rustle of pages being turned in a book, and the gentle, deep _thump, thump, thump_ of heavy books being settled against one another were all that could be heard in the drawing room. Each sound - so unique in its own way - was drawn from a completely different source, detailing the projects of each of the three in the room. 

First and foremost, _the scratch of pencil against paper_ , created by one Damian Wayne. If looks could ever be deceiving, it would have to be this freshly eighteen, green-eyed wonder: cheeks still faintly plump with the exuberance of youth, hands deliberate and educated in the way they move pencil over paper, blossoming creations so realistic it stops even the most educated of glances. Innocent though he looks, he is _anything_ but. He's all hard edges and lash-tongued wit, barely a single thought spared from the outside world... or so it would seem. 

Beside him, Timothy Drake, the one creating the ever-lasting _turn of pages_ , quicker than most would move from one page to the next, though the look on his face creates a clear picture of emotional depth, making it clear he's gleaning everything he needs to from the book. The tale, one might ask, is only entitled _Of Innocence_ , no author, no fancy cover or lettering down the spine. No visible summary or remarks from critics - only the title. A good, thick volume, maybe eight or nine hundred pages in length, heavily bound in the manner of older books, the gray fabric aged and the pages faintly yellowed with their years. The knit in his brow tells a myriad of stories, perhaps more so than the book in his hands. His demeanor is that of a tough-as-nails post-grad, though the way he holds himself tells another, darker story - one that begins and ends with something that any onlooker might assume is created with the blunt force of his fist. Perhaps... they are correct.

The final player is Dick Grayson. A former gymnast - and also eldest of the three - is hedging into his thirties even though he doesn't look a day over twenty five. He holds himself in a way that belays a certain joy for life, entirely made of smooth lines and surprising agility as he nearly flings himself and the rolling ladder he's on to the left, thumping to a stop at the end of the tracks and stretching to place a book in a gap of just the right size, squeezed between Harriette and Holmes. The way he braces himself with one foot against the side of the ladder, one foot on the rung, and both of his hands otherwise engaged tells its own story, one that's not too difficult to guess. It speaks of confidence and _ability_ , a quiet sort of grace that's pushed layers deep beneath a flashy outer shell.

As he stretches upwards, the curve of his back and the position of his foot yield a view no sane person could possibly avoid - at least minutely - appreciating. To this accord, neither Damian nor Timothy bothers to hide their relative interest in what's presented to them. Timothy, ever the covert one, only glances over his book, watching Dick strain toward the shelves, one rung higher than he dares to go upon the ladder. Damian... well, Damian is less calculating about hiding his interest. The possibilities are endless: perhaps he thinks himself not being watched or perhaps he simply does not care if he's caught or not. Whatever it may be, the way he rests his pencil beside the paper, the way he clasps his hands and then leans his chin upon them to stare _right_ at Dick's _ass_ is most daring.

Dick, for his part, is less oblivious than he lets on. The curve of his back is more pronounced than it needs to be and his pose as he attempts to place the book less efficient than it should be for someone so clearly practiced. However, it is the position that offers the _best_ view of his rear end. 

The smirk upon his face all but proves that.

It's only when he gets the book in place and shifts to settle the rest on a lower shelf, making his way down the ladder - _rung by rung_ \- that Damian's attention falters, even in the slightest. It's then that he picks back up his pencil and holds it mere centimeters from touching the page, his gaze still stuck on Dick's backside for the entire descent from the ladder. The soft huff of his breath is more than enough to tell of his excitement and the way Timothy smirks before hiding himself away behind his book tells even more.

The instant Dick has both feet on the floor, Damian is pushing one of his pencils off the desk, _watching_ it roll across the oak flooring to rest at Dick's feet. The aim: precise. The target: Dick Grayson. The objective: Perfectly clear. _The most glorious booty Damian has ever laid his eyes upon._

When Dick bends down to pick it up, he stays a fraction longer than is necessary, hovers over the pencil before carefully collecting it from the ground, though it's clear as day that he could have easily snatched it up and tossed it casually back on the desk. Instead, he chooses another path entirely. Once said item is retrieved, his steps are purposeful, his stride easy, _relaxed_ , and then he's sliding his rear onto the edge of the desk, settling inches from Damian's work and holding out the pencil in the palm of his hand, _waiting_ for Damian to extract it.

There's a half beat wherein it's uncertain what will happen, all three parties in the room left holding their breath. 

The silence is broken by the door opening and the quiet tap of dress shoes upon the floor, the gentle clank of china teacups against their saucers, and the scent of _earl grey_. 

Damian snatches the pencil away from Dick and Tim sticks his nose right back into his book, content to pretend he noticed none of what was happening. Dick stands up, smooths out his shirt, and turns to flash a grin at the bearer of afternoon tea: our final player, one Alfred Pennyworth.

Alfred, for his part, holds a look of determination as he passes out the china teacups, filling them with earl grey of exactly the proper temperature. One cube of sugar for Dick, a splash of milk for Timothy, and a freshly cut lemon and a small packet of agave nectar for Damian. He is fully aware of what he interrupted and entirely determined to call them all out on it, if for nothing else other than the fun of it. 

"It does seem Master Dick... _has the booty_ , does it not?"

Just like that, there's not a single quiet person in the room. Tim chokes on his tea, Dick nearly strangles himself in an attempt to down far too much of the piping hot beverage, and Damian... Damian accomplishes swallowing his mouthful of tea, though if the clatter of saucer to table is to be any indication, he's just as startled as the rest of them. 

Alfred turns away, a smile creeping over his face as he exits the room just the same as he arrived. Some things never grow old and torturing three of the boys he's watched grow up will always fall squarely into that category, if for no other reason than _some things should never be left unsaid_.


End file.
